


Close to the Flame

by benevolentculprit



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benevolentculprit/pseuds/benevolentculprit
Summary: Roy Mustang reflects on his friendship with Maes Hughes following his death, and, in a moment of weakness, reaches out to Edward Elric.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Kudos: 43





	Close to the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago when my FMA addiction began, and then a bunch of life stuff got in the way and I never finished it--but I think it could stand on its own. I'm also on tumblr as devotedlyspookysandwich but it's mostly Gundam Wing stuff. Anyway, thanks for reading!

It's going to rain today.

It's the kind of weather where the clouds are swollen with drops unshed, the air thick and moist. The kind of weather which spurs a dull ache in my right shoulder, not sharp, but a nuisance nonetheless.

The kind of weather which makes me useless.

Useless, I'm told.

Maes had once confided with a rough slap on the back belying his gentle tone, that I could be one of the coldest and most calculating sons of bitches he had ever met.

I did not know whether to be flattered or offended.

A manipulative bastard. But he didn't mean it, really. It was followed by a good natured laugh, and Maes does what few people do, he laughs with his entire body. His soul. It is earnest and genuine and unabashed.

I cannot recall the last time I had laughed like that.

He compared me to a hero with a tragic flaw. And as he often gets carried away in imparting his wisdom on me when we used to open the bottle of good scotch, he informed me that one day, for all my roguish and reckless pursuits of women, a stray angel from heaven, blonde, beautiful, though not comparable to his exquisite Gracia (I quote his exact words naturally) would capture my heart and I would forever be at her mercy.

Had I known the irony of this statement I would have laughed.

Maes, what would you think of me now?

Maes. I am not like you.

You, who would think it a crime not to kiss your daughter goodnight.

But I am not like you Maes.

My crimes are too hefty; there are sins for which I cannot atone.

I don't think I could ever live up to the expectations reflected back in your eyes. But that's now gone, snuffed out, and there are no more good guys left. Save one.

A sinner of a different sort. A benevolent culprit.

But the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

We are both sinners. He wears his punishment as a badge. My crimes go without penalty.

He is all hot or cold; there is no middle ground. He is all rough edges, and soft angles. There is no in between. He is venom or tenderness. Never both.

What would you think of me now, Maes?

Would you condemn this? Scorn and damn me to hell--you should. But you wouldn't. You would not deem it morbid; you would understand. You always did.

But you are not here. And the demons in the dark close in and spread their claws.

He is not charming, by any means. He is not delicate and refined, nor a man of, great stature. He is awkward, brazen, loud, and blunt. But he is quick-witted, analytical and methodical, and when no one is looking--

perhaps, charming in his own way.

But he would not regale you with clever conversation over dinner, listen raptly when you spoke-he would probably refute everything you said-nor would he look comfortable on your arm at public functions. He would have to be something kept furtive and quiet, hidden with care.

That would not suit him. He is as lively and bright as the sun itself, and must have room to expand.

It wouldn't be fair.

What am I thinking? I am not well today.

I hadn't made the call.

But I had.

Maes, what would you think of me now?

It is a sinner's nature, to succumb to base desire, to blindly seek that which is forbidden.

I hadn't poured a second glass of scotch.

But I had.

I admit that it was for you, Maes. I remember your hands lacing around the container, lightly swirling the amber liquid with a flick of your wrist, amber, like his eyes, and your visage was obscured because your head was bent in some silent introspection.

Maes. Could you forgive me, even now?

I need to hear the words.

I could reach out, that's all it would take, and everything would come tumbling down.

And I want it. Just like I always have.

Heaven help me, I am not like you Maes.

I had the best intentions. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I didn't make the call.

But I had.

I won't speak his name.

I flinch, may heaven rain down upon me, I flinch, the knock at the door is abrupt; two firm resounds.

"Fullmetal."

But I did.

The words have already escaped before I could prevent it. The reverberations from the sound coil around me like flames. Fitting. May the repurcussions be the same.

I rise unceremoniously, all chemical grace drained from me, and open the door.

And he is all spite and malice.

But there is something new bristling beneath the surface. Confusion.

I must have looked like death warmed over, for the insult immediately died on his lips, and he faltered.

"Colonel?"

There is that softness in his eyes again, the same softness that stayed my hand on the day our rivalries boiled to the surface and we did battle--a grand display, which only resulted in a stalemate. Such is our way.

I would have seized this moment; the quip rising in my throat, but I bit it back. I am having an off day.

Instead, I step aside, allowing him to enter.

Forgive me, Maes, I am not like you.

It's going to rain today.

\-------------


End file.
